


from the timbers faded from the winter

by maximoffs



Series: from the timbers faded from the winter [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Multi, Sansa-centric
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-11-27 00:44:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/656131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maximoffs/pseuds/maximoffs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>fairy tale au where sansa stark is a runaway princess who has adventures and gets into trouble and meets a bunch of ridiculous characters along the way</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one

Once upon a time, in a great kingdom by the sea, there lived a beautiful princess with red hair and wolves’ teeth. Her name was Sansa, and like all beautiful princesses she had a wicked stepmother, three fairy godmothers, and a curse to be married. 

“You will take my place someday,” Queen Cersei would tell her with a heavy heart. “And that is why I hate you. Don’t take it personally.”

“How can I not take it personally?” Sansa asked.

“It is our fate as women,” the Queen would reply. “We must hate one another, so that the men can continue to rule.”

Sometimes, very rarely, Sansa would lie awake at night and dream of taking the Queen’s hand, of asking her to love her instead. Life could be different, she knew. She felt it growing in her heart—this hope of a better world. But she never raised her voice to express it, and she never forgot her manners, and she never took the Queen’s hand.

One day, the King threw a tournament, and princes from all across the land came to compete for a chance to marry Sansa. It was all for show, of course. She had already been promised to their wretched son—Prince Joffrey. He was very handsome and very cruel, and Sansa found herself frightened of him. It is important to know when to be frightened, she told herself; in fact, it is brave, in a way. She told herself this in hopes that it would make her feel better, although it never did.

On the day of the tournament, she watched from her window at the princes coming in, and began to cry, because she knew she would never find the true love she had always dreamt about. Her fate was to be locked in the highest tower of the cruelest marriage, and grow bitter, and hate the princesses that would come after her. 

As she was lamenting, a crash from behind her startled her, and she turned to see what it was.

Three men (truth be told, they were hardly men—they looked more like boys) stood in the middle of her room, dusting themselves off. Judging from their drab clothing, Sansa could tell they were not princes. In fact, she had no idea what they were, only that they were in her room, and they certainly weren’t supposed to be, no matter how handsome they were.

For a moment, they just stared at one another, until Sansa remembered to curtsey (courtesy is armour, she reminded herself). “Yes?” she asked.

The men looked at one another. 

“Right,” One finally said. He had a decent amount of curly hair on his head, auburn like Sansa’s. “We’re your… uh.”

“Go on,” Another said. He had even more curly hair than the first one, and jabbed him with a finger. 

“I’m gettin’ to it,” The first one hissed. He was clearly the leader. 

(The third one kind of just stood there, looking embarrassed.)

“I’m Robb,” The first one said, as if that explained everything.

Sansa frowned. “Alright?” she replied. She had no idea what to say. Before she could question him further, the one who hadn’t spoken yet—who had been dutifully examining the books on Sansa’s bookshelves—jumped in.

“I’m Theon,” he said, without looking up at her. He gave a sort of wave. “All you have are romances.”

She blinked at him in response. What else would a princess have? It isn’t as if she was being taught philosophy by the Queen.

“Jon,” said the last one gloomily. “It’s nice to finally meet you. In person.” He added this as if it wasn’t nice at all, just something polite to say. In fact, none of them quite looked like they wanted to be there.

“Are you going to tell me what you’re doing in my room, or am I going to have to call the guards?” Sansa finally demanded, putting her hands on her hips. As much as the princess valued good manners, she also valued decency and a good reputation—neither of which these men were helping to preserve. 

Robb and Theon both looked at Jon, frowning. Jon had been frowning the whole time, so now they all just looked ridiculous.

“We’re your… fairy…god…people,” Jon mumbled. 

“Excuse me?”

“We protect you,” said Robb, brightening up. “We’re like knights!”

“From your romances!” Theon chimed in.

“Yes, but you’re not knights are you?” Sansa asked, wondering why every detail of her life had to be wrong in some way. “You’re fairies.” She tried to make it sound like an insult (although truthfully the idea of fairies was somewhat exciting). 

“Well,” Theon said, sounding a bit hurt. “You don’t have to say it like that.”

“Yeah, we’re quite good,” Robb added. 

Jon gave her a sort of shrug, then sat down on her bed. 

“You really can’t be on my bed,” Sansa said. “It’s not appropriate for—”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s not like anyone will know we’re here.”

“It’s not?”

“No one else can see us,” Robb said with a smile. He sat down next to Jon.

“They can’t?”

“Nope,” Theon said, joining them. “We’re yours.”

Sansa considered this for a moment. It didn’t sound so horrible, to have something secret all for herself. It was actually kind of nice.

“Well,” she began, leaning against her window. “Why now? Why haven’t you come to me before? I’ve needed you all this time.”

Jon frowned and Theon looked down at his feet. 

“We can only come at the last minute,” Robb said.

The princess didn’t understand. Last minute for what? 

“It’s crucial for you to save yourself now,” he added.

“But I’m a princess,” Sansa countered. “My job is to be saved. By a prince. That’s what is written.”

Jon gave her a long, sad look. “You know it’s the prince you need to be saved from.”

“There’s not just one prince!” she exclaimed. “There are plenty of princes! One will save me from Joffrey.” Even as she said those words, she knew they weren’t true. She had known all along, by the way he looked at her, by the crack of his hand against her mouth and the blood trickling out. By the hard look in Queen Cersei’s eyes whenever she was with the King—that look that said, I was like you once. A living girl. I had dreams, too. She had known, though she did not want to. 

“Alright,” she said softly. They were looking at her and waiting. “Alright, what do I have to do?”

Robb smiled. For a brief moment, the three of them weren’t sure about Sansa; they couldn’t see the strength underneath her kind eyes. But now, when she turned to them again, they realized she had a warrior’s heart—she was a true daughter of wolves. And they knew she would get away.

“You must go to the forest,” Jon told her. “There are all manner of unpleasant things that live there, but some of them will help you.”

“How will I know who to trust?” she asked.

“The witch will tell you,” Robb said. “She’s very nice.”

“A nice witch?” Sansa asked, wrinkling her nose. She had read all about the witches, with their green skin and cackling laughter and rotten teeth. 

“You’d be surprised,” Jon said with a shrug.

“That’s right,” Theon added. “Queens are supposed to be gracious and warm, after all.”

Sansa couldn’t really argue with that.

So she ran away to seek the woods witch, traveling through sleet and hail, through the branches whipping and cutting her face, through the winter seeping into her bones and making its home there. Just when she felt as though she could not go any further, she came upon a door hidden in the bark of a tree. She knocked on it, and a little girl who hid behind her hair answered, smiling shyly.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” Sansa heard her say, before collapsing. 

When she woke up, the princess found herself in a cozy little quilted bed, surrounded by candles. There was a fox sleeping at her feet. She blinked at it when it raised its sleepy head, tilted it, and blinked back.

“Oh, you’re up!” the girl who had answered the door said, bringing in a pot of tea. She poured a cup and sat beside Sansa. “That’s good. It’s been three days. I was worried.”

“Three days?” Sansa asked, sitting up suddenly. Three days was a very long time. 

“You should try to rest,” the girl said. “Drink some tea.” In this dim light, she was sort of pretty—the half of her face that Sansa could make out. She was very plain. She didn’t look anything like anyone Sansa had ever seen before.

“I’m looking for the witch who lives in this forest,” Sansa said.

The girl nodded, bringing the cup to the princess’ mouth, forcing her to take a sip. It was the best thing she had tasted in her entire life. 

“Can you tell me where to find her?” Sansa asked, between mouthfuls. She didn’t want to be rude, but she was horribly tired and confused, and she really had to be getting on.

“Oh,” the girl said with a frown. “I’m the witch.”

“You? But you don’t look like a witch!”

The little witch looked down at her hands, but Sansa could see the edges of a smile light her up, and wondered why an offhand comment would mean so much to her. 

As much as she hated to admit it, Sansa could feel her eyes closing, the empty teacup slipping from her hand. In an instant, the cup was gone and she was lying back down, the warmth of the room enveloping her. The witch bent over to tuck the quilt around her—a gesture Sansa could only remember from her dreams—and as she did, the princess glimpsed something grey and cracked on the other side of her face, like a statue.

And just like that, she was out.

**

The second time she woke up, the candles had all been blown out, the fox was gone, and daylight was seeping in through a decently sized oval window beside her. When Sansa slipped out of bed she found clothes had been laid out for her—warm, sturdy ones: proper trousers and a soft tunic and a wool sweater—and shrugged into them, happy to be comfortable and out of a corset during the day for the first time in her life. 

She wandered around the cottage, which turned out to be cozy yet spacious, bigger inside than it looked on the outside. In fact, she didn’t quite remember what the outside looked like; all she had noticed was a door. Sansa had the faintest feeling that she had been sleeping inside a very special kind of tree for the past few days. 

When she finally found the kitchen area, she saw that it was connected to a tiny living room, with a fireplace burning and comfortable-looking sofa, and a door on the west wall. She also found a small breakfast of boiled egg, honey, jam, fruit, a pot of tea, and a loaf of bread spread out for her. 

The stories, it seemed, were wrong about witches. 

Just as she was sitting down, the door opened and her witch came in, a scarf wrapped tightly around her neck, a bundle of twigs and leaves in her hand, and the fox following faithfully at her heels. She smiled, pulling her hair in front of her face.

“Good morning, princess.”

“Good morning,” Sansa replied, and, realizing she didn’t even know the witch’s name, laughed lightly. “What shall I call you?”

“Shireen,” the witch said. “And you’re Sansa.”

“How did you know?”

“I’m a witch.”

Sansa couldn’t very well argue with that. “Is this all for me?” She asked, instead.

“Hmm. You might have to save a little piece for Florent,” Shireen replied, indicating the fox pawing at Sansa’s knee.

“Fair enough,” Sansa said, laughing again. It was only then that she realized how long it had been since she felt at ease enough to laugh. 

Shireen smiled at her, feeding off of her good mood. “You’re looking much better today, princess.”

“You don’t have to call me that.”

“I don’t mind,” Shireen shrugged. 

They sat together in silence while Sansa ate, feeding bits of bread and honey to Florent, who was a very well behaved foxling. 

“Do you live here all by yourself?” Sansa asked, watching Shireen scratch between Florent’s ears.

“I do.”

“Doesn’t it get lonely?”

“It’s not so bad. Sometimes I have guests.”

“What about your family?” Sansa asked. It occurred to her a second too late that witches might not _have_ families, and she blushed at her mistake.

Shireen didn’t seem to notice. “My father visits when he can.” She looked up at Sansa and whispered—“He was banished.”

“Why? Is he also a witch?”

Shireen laughed. “Wizard. Sort of. But that’s not why.”

“Why, then?” 

“King Robert didn’t like him,” she replied, swiping a raspberry from Sansa’s plate. 

“That’s not fair,” Sansa said, frowning. “You can’t just banish someone because you don’t like them.”

“You can if they’re your brother.”

The princess looked up at Shireen in surprise. “Brother?”

Shireen nodded.

“But that makes you—”

Shireen nodded again.

“That’s even _more_ unfair,” Sansa said. “You should be in a _palace_ , not… _here_.”

Shireen met her gaze, a bit cold. “I like it here.”

Sansa swallowed, blushing again. Now she had said the wrong thing. “I only meant. You should have a choice.”

The shadow passed from Shireen’s face, replaced again with a smile.

“That’s sweet of you, princess. But I’m sure, even if I did have a choice, I would choose this life.”

“Why?” Sansa couldn’t help but ask. “Not to be rude, of course. I’m just curious.”

Shireen gave her a funny look. “You sought me out. You should be able to answer that question.”

It’s true.

“They’re going to marry me off,” Sansa said quietly.

Shireen nodded.

“They killed my family,” she said. She had never said those words out loud before. 

Sansa had always known it, of course—everyone had known it; it had been done right in front of her face—but she still couldn’t bring herself to say them. It had been Joffrey, the boy she was meant to marry, and his thieving, golden advisors. They killed her father the King of the Lands Above the Wood, and before that they killed King Robert, and before that they kidnapped her.

When she looked to Queen Cersei for help, the Queen had just stood by. For her credit, she did not take her eyes off of Sansa; she was no coward, the princess knew. The court was no place for cowards. They didn’t survive. 

“Your father wasn’t a coward, either,” Shireen said, reading her mind, taking her hand. 

“I know,” Sansa replied, and only then did she realize she was crying. 

Shireen moved closer, and thumbed her tears away gently, looking at her face. 

“I will help you if I can.”

It wasn’t that Sansa didn’t appreciate it—only that she needed assurance. She hadn’t felt safe in so long, and it was difficult to be a proper princess, to be kind and generous and good and humble, when all you felt like was curling up under your bed. 

“I will help you,” Shireen repeated, firmer this time, in the kind of tone that surprised Sansa, that she didn’t expect from this girl who couldn’t have been older than the princess herself, who spoke so softly and lived all by herself in a little cottage in the woods. 

“I know,” Sansa replied, and she realized she believed it.


	2. two

They set out that afternoon, with Florent leading the way. The fox, Sansa learned, never left her master’s side, and the two of them had developed a sort of language between them over the years. Shireen would speak to it in English, and in return Florent would go through a series of gestures (wagging her bushy tail, bearing her sharp little teeth, running in a circle) that, when completed in a particular sequence, would form a message. Sansa didn’t quite understand it, but it clearly delighted the little witch. 

“Where are we going?” Sansa asked, after a mile or so.

“To visit my uncle,” Shireen replied, casual as anything—causing Sansa to stop dead in her tracks.

“From the _grave_?”

“Oh no, silly! Besides, Robert wouldn’t help us,” Shireen said. “We’re going to see the nice one.”

Sansa was relieved, but now Shireen had stopped to look at her.

“Well,” she said. “Nice… Depending on who you ask.”

And before Sansa could protest, she was smiling and taking her hand and pulling her forward. 

The rest of the journey involved five miles out of the woods, a lengthy argument with a parliament of owls, the trading of three different types of herbs for directions, and one torrential downfall. When they finally arrived at Shireen’s Maybe-Nice-Depending Uncle, Sansa was elated to see a proper castle rise up in front of them. 

Just as they reached the door, Shireen stopped them and turned Sansa to her.

“This won’t do,” she mumbled, reaching in her pocket for something.

“I’m sorry?” 

“Don’t be offended. It’s just that my uncle likes things to be very pretty, and two rain-soaked girls would put him in a mood.” She pulled out a handful of dried herbs and sprinkled them in front of Sansa’s nose—drying her instantly, smoothing out her hair and clothes, adding a natural blush to her cheeks—before doing the same to herself. The herbs, Sansa noted as Shireen pulled her hair in front of half her face, did nothing for the grey skin.

“That’s better,” Shireen finally said, sounding a bit distant. She knocked on the door and was promptly answered by a flurry of horns erupting from nowhere. Sansa was slightly startled, but tried her best not to show it. 

They were eventually let inside, and if Sansa thought King Robert Baratheon’s castle was impressive, it was only because she hadn’t even dreamed of one like his youngest brother’s. The ceilings were so high she had to crane her neck all the way back to take them all in, roses covered the walls and the tables, everything that wasn’t made out of gilt was silk and everything that wasn’t silk was velvet. It was breathtaking. It was slightly overwhelming. Sansa felt a bit dizzy in the face of it all.

“I know,” Shireen whispered, taking her hand and squeezing it. “The headache goes away after a while, I promise.”

They exchanged the sort of secret smile friends who have known each other for years do, and Sansa warmed at the realization of it.

“Shireen,” came a booming, honeyed voice—followed by a man dressed as richly as the palace, young and handsome, arms out as if to embrace her. He didn’t, though. He stopped just short of them, at arms length, a smile plastered onto his face. “And you’ve brought a friend.”

“Her name is Sansa Stark,” Shireen said, not quite bothering with civilities, “and she’s in dire need of your help.”

“I know all about Sansa Stark,” the young Baratheon King replied. “A she-wolf in the South! How exciting.” 

“It’s not exciting, Uncle Renly,” Shireen said seriously. 

Renly looked at both of them and then his bannermen, hanging about the room. He hadn’t stopped smiling. “Why don’t we take some tea and talk in private?” 

The tea room did not disappoint; it was every bit as immaculate as the Great Hall. Sansa wondered how long it must have taken to build such a castle.

“Not long,” Shireen whispered into her ear, as Renly fiddled with the tea things. “Everything you see is an illusion—the real set of the family was too dark and drab to satisfy my uncle.”

“Can you read my mind?” Sansa whispered back.

“Just a little. Sorry.”

For some reason, it didn’t make Sansa feel as invaded and upset as she thought it might. 

“Well then,” Renly said, finally sitting down with them. Sansa and Shireen both politely sipped at their tea, giving him time to think. It was just then that Sansa realized Florent wasn’t with them anymore; she must have slipped off sometime during all the horn-blowing commotion. Renly looked at them thoughtfully for a long time, and then set his cup aside.

“I’m not really sure,” he began, “what you’d like me to do.”

Sansa felt something deep and sinking in her stomach. 

“Anything, really,” Shireen piped up beside her. “Anything at all.”

“You know the laws of the land, Shireen. Princesses don’t really have much of a say in their futures, unfortunately.” 

“Yes, but laws can be changed,” the witch protested.

“Ah,” Renly said, raising a finger. “Now that is just the type of attitude that will get you banished.” 

“And you won’t do anything to stop it from happening,” she replied glumly. 

Renly frowned. He was clearly not pleased with the way this conversation was going. For as cheerful and generous as he seemed, as well-skilled as he was in making new friends and gathering allies about him, and as much as, deep down, both girls believed that Renly Baratheon was not a bad sort—that he had a true heart beating in his chest—it always seemed to be drowned out by the vast amount of silk and lace it was wrapped up in, and no one could quite get at it. Renly was like a beautiful bird; he was the type to fly away when he needed to save himself, and leave you behind in danger.

“Uncle Renly,” Shireen said, suddenly having a thought. “Can’t you marry her?”

Sansa stared. It wasn’t a horrible solution, truthfully. And she could live in this beautiful castle, and be close to Shireen always. 

“You know I can’t do that, little witch.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m to be married to Margaery Tyrell, the Rose.”

Sansa had heard of Margaery Tyrell, of course. She was rumored to be one of the most beautiful women in the country—more so, some said, even than Queen Cersei. Sansa had never met her, but she doubted such a rumor could be true. For everything else she was, the Queen was truly the most breathtaking person Sansa had ever laid eyes on. Sometimes, she didn’t even begrudge the woman for being so cruel, all that beauty and charm wasted on a fat oaf of a man who couldn’t appreciate it. She remembered what the Queen had told her from time to time, _We must hate one another_. It wasn’t entirely a choice. 

Still, Sansa thought, you should at least _try_ to change your fate, if you don’t like it. Queen Cersei had never really tried to be nice to her. 

When Renly had left the room, Shireen turned to her and rolled her eyes. “I should have known,” she whispered.

“Known what?”

The witch pulled her hair in front of her face. “That he’d be useless.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Sansa said softly.

“Do what?”

Sansa raised a hand and tucked Shireen’s hair behind her ear in response.

“I’m prettier this way,” Shireen replied, undoing it.

“You’re pretty no matter what,” Sansa said.

**

If nothing else, Renly was good to offer them a rest, a bath, a change of clothes, and a bit of food for the way. 

“Now what?” Sansa asked, biting her lip. They were moving east toward the sea, instead of west, the way they came. 

“I’m thinking,” Shireen replied. A sly smile crossed her face. “Maybe we can just sell you to the pirates.”

“Shireen!” Sansa exclaimed, smacking her arm, “I _don’t_ want to be sold to pirates.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m a princess.”

“A lot of good that’s done you, princess.”

“And being a pirate’s slave will be better?”

“You might be surprised,” Shireen said, thoughtfully. “I don’t think they’d make you a slave.”

“Wait,” Sansa said, stopping. “You aren’t actually going to sell me to a pirate. Right?”

The witch laughed. “No, Sansa, I’m not going to sell you to a pirate. But I think we might be able to get some good advice from them.”

“Really?”

“Sure. There’s a prophet in their midst.”

“Oh,” Sansa replied, dumbly. She had no idea pirates could produce prophets. In fact, she was beginning to realize the world wasn’t at all what she had imagined it would be like—friendly witches and fake castles, boys who pretended to be knights but were actually fairies. Queens who killed. 

“It’s okay, princess,” Shireen said, taking her hand. “You’re catching on very quickly.”

Pirates, Sansa thought as they walked along. She tried to remember what she could of the pirates in her songs and stories—none of which was particularly helpful or encouraging. But things weren’t what they seemed, she was learning, and help often came from unexpected places.

“Oh, Sansa,” Shireen suddenly said, “isn’t that one of your boys?” She pointed up at a tree, and so it was. Theon was dangling from its branches with a ridiculous grin on his face.

“Hey there!” he called, waving. 

“Hi,” the girls called back.

“What are you up to?” Theon replied, hanging upside down. He looked like a very smarmy monkey. 

“What does it look like, Theon?” Shireen asked, clearly not in the mood for his antics. 

“Have you two met?” Sansa asked. The princess thought that only she had the ability to see her fairy godboys. 

“Unfortunately,” both of her friends said at once. 

“We went to the wood witch before we came to see you,” Theon explained.

“That’s how I knew to look for you,” Shireen said, and Sansa remembered her first words to her.

Theon jumped down, landed on his two feet, and bowed—still grinning.

“Okay, Puck,” Sansa said with a laugh, giving him a quick hug. “Not to be rude, but. Why are you here?”

“To warn you that danger is ahead.”

Theon and Shireen exchanged a look. 

“What sort of danger?” Sansa asked.

“The kind you should avoid,” Theon replied, carefully. “Ramsay,” he added to Shireen.

The witch nodded, her mouth forming a thin line.

“Can you hold them off?”

She nodded again. 

“I’ll take the princess.”

“Wait,” Sansa cut in, confused. “What’s happening? What’s Ramsay? Where are you taking me?”

“Theon will explain on the way,” Shireen said, turning to Sansa and forcing a smile. “You’ll be fine.”

“What about you?”

“Don’t worry about me, princess,” Shireen replied, putting her arms around her for a moment. “I’ll have help.” She turned to Theon. “Send me your brothers and get word to Asha. Take her to Davos. Don’t stray, and don’t get distracted, Theon. I have my third eye on you.”

“Creepy,” Theon said with another one of those grins.

And before Sansa could even properly process what was going on, he had a hand around her arm and was dragging her off. The last she saw of Shireen, the little witch was eyeing the woods and then marching forwards, looking—Sansa suspected—a lot braver than she felt.

As they walked on, Sansa tried to sort the questions she wanted to ask out in her mind. Before she could get through them all, however, Theon began to talk.

“Ramsay Bolton,” he said, almost to himself. “Can you even believe it?”

“I don’t know what that _is_ ,” Sansa replied.

“And let’s hope you never do,” Theon said—and that was the end of that.

“What will happen to Shireen?” 

“Don’t worry about her. She’s a witch.”

“Yes, so everyone keeps saying. But what if—”

“Witches don’t go into battle,” Theon interrupted. “She’ll be safe.”

“There’s going to be a battle?”

“Not if we can help it,” the fairy mumbled.

“Is anyone ever going to give me a straight answer about what just happened back there?”

“Probably not. But on the bright side, Davos will have adventure stories to tell you.”

This seemed more of a bright side for Theon than it did for Sansa, who didn’t particularly enjoy adventure stories. She said as much, but Theon was already daydreaming, whistling something out of tune as they walked on.

**

When they finally got near the sea, the sun was setting and there was laughter coming from the long row of boats docked there. A few men had their legs dangling off the side of their decks, lines in the water, trying to catch their dinner. Lights flickered on and off, faint music played in the background, and Sansa could smell fish being grilled. To her complete surprise, it was the warm sort of atmosphere she hadn’t realized she was longing for. 

Theon grinned widely at her, elbowing her gently in the ribs. “C’mon then,” he said, “Let’s find _The Rainwood_ before all the ale’s gone.”

Sansa followed, despite not being a huge fan of ale, until they came upon a decently sized boat near the end of the line, quieter than the rest. A man was standing barefoot on deck, trousers rolled up to his calves, frowning down on them. He didn’t exactly look like the type to be telling adventure stories, but Theon said, “This is it!”

He waved up to the man on the boat, who made no sign of recognition in return.

“Is Davos around?” he asked, totally unfazed. 

Instead of replying, the man disappeared inside—leaving Sansa to believe that they were not wanted here, and that very soon Theon’s affinity for alcohol was going to get them killed or captured by pirates (this man was clearly a pirate) (he must have left his eye patch inside)—and another man, a somewhat friendlier looking pirate, came out. 

“Why if it isn’t Robin Goodfellow,” this man said with a smile, simultaneously delighting Sansa and confusing Theon.

“No?” Theon replied. “No, sir, you have truly become senile at last, my name—” 

“ _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_!” Sansa exclaimed before he could finish. She knew it was terribly rude to interrupt, but couldn’t help it, given the circumstances. “I was just busy calling him Puck earlier.” She smiled for the first time since her separation with Shireen, letting the pirate pull her up onto the boat.

“Then you, my lady, have very good taste,” the pirate whispered, so that Theon wouldn’t be let into their little secret.

Sansa beamed up at him—it was a little difficult not to—and nodded. “Don’t let him catch on,” she replied, equally as conspiratorially, as Theon struggled to clamber up on the deck by himself.

“Name’s Davos Seaworth,” the pirate said.

“Sansa Stark,” Sansa answered, still smiling.

“And I’m Theon,” Theon grumbled. “If you two are done, I would appreciate some ale. Think I’ve earned it, even.”

“Then ale you shall have,” Davos told him, and led the way inside. 

The other man was sitting cross-legged at the table, playing a game of Solitaire. He barely glanced up when Sansa and Theon entered, trailing behind their host. Now, Sansa wasn’t exactly the haughty or entitled type—not after the way she’d been treated at court—but after all she was a princess, and she expected a bow at least. 

“Hello,” she said, approaching the table. (Davos and Theon were busy with the enormous keg.)

“Hello,” the man replied, focused on his cards.

“My name is Sansa Stark,” she said.

“Stannis.”

“Stannis what?”

“Just Stannis.”

“You must have a last name,” the princess said.

“Sure,” Stannis replied, flipping over a nine of spades. 

“What is it?”

Stannis looked at her, finally, scowling. “Don’t you want to go have some ale?” Sansa realized immediately that this was more a way of getting her to leave him alone than a heartfelt offer to make her feel more comfortable.

“I don’t drink ale,” she replied. “I’m a princess.”

“Congratulations,” Stannis said dryly. 

“Why are you being so rude?” Sansa demanded.

“You’re on my boat.”

“This is _Davos Seaworth_ ’s boat, actually, and he happens to be a very _nice_ pirate.”

Stannis snorted. “Same thing.”

“How is it the same thing?”

“What’s his is mine,” Stannis said flatly, gathered the cards into his hand with a sweep, stood up, and brushed past her. 

When she turned around, she met Theon face-to-face, grinning as usual, holding two pints of beer. “I know you said you don’t like it, but that’s because you’ve never tried it I’ll bet,” he said.

“I’ve tried ale, Theon.”

“Yeah but have you tried this particular kind?”

“It all tastes the same to me.”

“Princesses,” Theon muttered, shaking his head. “Well if you’re not going to drink it, I’ll—”

“I’ll drink it,” Sansa answered, taking the pint from him. This earned her a genuine smile. 

“Good on you.”

“Where did Davos go?”

“Outside I think, they’re having a private old man meeting. Probably discussing how they’re going to kill us and sell our organs on the black market, later.”  
Sansa turned to him, wide-eyed.

“I’m kidding, princess. You think I’d lead you straight into danger?”

“You haven’t been very good at keeping me out of it so far.”

“You’re still in one piece, aren’t you?” Theon said, taking a swig of his beer. “Besides, letting you find danger for yourself is different than leading you to it. Which I would never do. Because I’m an _excellent_ fairy godperson, despite what Robb or Jon might say.”

“Speaking of,” Sansa said, looking into her mug. She had not been able to destroy the gut-wrenching worry she felt for Shireen and the boys, despite how nonchalant Theon was acting. There was something terrible in those woods, she knew—something they didn’t want her to fully understand, and that fact only worried her more.

“We’ll have news soon, don’t worry. Asha will come.”

“I don’t know who that _is_.”

“A pirate.”

Sansa shouldn’t have been surprised.


End file.
